• “The workshop helped me to feel comfortable writing about myself and to work through my ideas to see what would work. It proved to be a crucial way for me to figure out what was most important to me and how to express that to the colleges I was applying to in the most articulate way. I highly recommend it as learning experience.”
  • Sophia Toles
  • Martha’s Vineyard Workshop Attendee
  • Class of 2012, Friends Academy
  • Class of 2016, Princeton University
  • “David Dent does a great job of helping students come up with revealing topics of their very own to consider for their college essays. He takes the time that is needed to transport your child beyond the routine parameters of his/her thinking to get there.”
  • Lisa Boldt, Mother
  • Alden Boldt
  • Class of 2014, Berkshire School
  • Class of 2018, Union College
  • “When Cameron came to Write for the Future, he was at the bottom of his class in writing and literature. In about 26 sessions, he has gone from a bottom to an A. It is so exhilarating to see this work-in-action. David and Write for the Future have proven that what they say, they do. Write for the Future is a testament to itself. … Now my son can analyze things, he can write things; there are not words to express the things he has done since he has been working with Write for the Future...I would recommend Write for the Future offers to anyone. You are investing in your child’s future,… and you will see the outcome of the product. Write for the Future has done wonders for my son. On Sundays, he always looks forward to his session…. I think it’s amazing.”
  • Lynn King,
  • Mother of Cameron King,
  • Class of 2016, Elisabeth Irwin High School

Essay of the Week: Lessons from a Mannequin

Essay of the Week: Lessons from a Mannequin

By Deon Butler

I got my first mannequin when I was 8 years old from my grandmother — a Christmas present. Its sleek figure absorbed my interests, and I embarked on my newfound vocation for designing.

My method was spontaneous. I would pull a red silk and pair it with pink cotton — anything that inspired innovation.

Some things came together so perfectly they seemed like destiny, but some techniques didn’t work; broken or bent pins and ripped fabrics could all attest to my efforts. Sometimes I would rotate the delicate humanoid too harshly when pinning fabric.

It was a tenuous long-term relationship to say the least. And so one day, after four years, our literal break-up came. It was almost as if it was written: I spun the mannequin to inspect an outfit. I turned my back and heard the creaking sound of metal wobbling on the floor. The mannequin broke off the base and crashed through the window. The accidental destruction of my dear mannequin dwarfed my attachment to the cotton model.

My engineering mind quickly assign blame to its poor construction. The heavy torso sat atop a slender pole, connecting it to a paper thin base fastened with a few tiny screws. These inadequacies created a high center of gravity; the mannequin was destined to fall.

This moment was symbolic of my change in focus from fashion to engineering/architecture. That summer, I decided to attend Charles Herbert Flowers High School, celebrated for an engineering program specifically designed to enhance the symbiotic skills of physics and aesthetics–qualities necessary for a successful civil engineer or architect.

When the time came to join clubs, I disregarded a flyer recruiting stage crew members. I knew I had an aptitude for engineering. I had aced every test that year. But what would a young engineer/architect even do in Drama Club?

When flyers hit the walls Sophomore year, I was still wary of theater — the unknown. My friends, however, wouldn’t let it slide anymore.

“The plays are really good,”

“C’mon, it’s a lot of fun,”

“There’s a full dinner every night!” — this coaxed me into attending the information session, where I realized it wouldn’t actually be so difficult to find my place.

By junior year, I had become the stage crew chief for our spring production of “Hairspray!” I was most proud of how my experience from engineering and architectural courses helped me execute my leading role in the creation of the set. It was a daunting task, but when the Drama director, Ms. Ingram, approached me it was evident that she believed in my talent. I collaborated with the master carpenter to design the set, paying close attention to its textural details, and color schemes– a tribute to my relationship with the mannequin.

The end result was vibrant and cheerful, but there were several challenges. I had to find a balance between aesthetics and practicality as multiple pieces rotated to reflect scene changes. The procedure required precision; if some parts were turned the wrong way at the same time they collided. There was also an oversized hairspray can that doubled as a fog machine. Since it’s wires would get caught when rotating this piece, I sprinted across the stage every showing to plug the machine in moments before it was needed.

The offstage cast and I waited for the final scene with bated breath. Once the lights rose and I heard the crowd applauding, I knew it had all been worthwhile. As I took the stage for my bow, I thought about my grandmother and the rest of my family in the auditorium cheering me on.

My designs materialized. I pushed myself and found new applications from what I had learned from engineering. The process opened up my eyes to the intricacies of a successful production, fostered many new friendships, and created a place for me to form new artistic and scientific bonds.

Deon Butler, a 2017 graduate of Charles Herbert Flowers High School in Springdale, MD, is a freshman at the University of Maryland, College Park.

Essay of the Week: A Commitment to Service Grows with a Smile and Macaroni and Cheese

Essay of the Week: A Commitment to Service Grows with a Smile and Macaroni and Cheese

By Taylor Little

“Boys, dinner’s ready.”

Mom’s voice expedites my Thanksgiving sprint. My cousins and I fall over each other, get up, and repeat the battle to be the first in line for some of Mom’s mac and cheese. Anthony, the oldest of the bunch, always wins and never waits either, nibbling his way through grace (he is a terrible Christian). By the time we say “Amen,” Anthony radiates in happiness, unaware of the table’s growing suspicion on the whereabouts of his mac and cheese.The stillness of his smile glows through the evening. There is only one other time when I saw a smile stuck in happiness because of mac and cheese.

It was Thanksgiving of 2012 and her name was Kathy. She is nine years old, thinner than normal but possesses a softness — a warmth — no wonder she loves mac and cheese. Kathy nags me, albeit pleasantly: “Where is the mac and cheese?”

“I don’t know. I guess it is coming soon”

Unsatisfied she returns.

“Excuse me Mr., where is the mac and cheese?”

I search for it several times and, failingly, face her question again:“Hello, where is the mac and cheese?”

I have been a basketball fan for years and was now surrounded by the Atlanta Hawks for a NBA Cares event. The players, like me, came to feed underprivileged children on Thanksgiving. I was excited to see the Hawks but I was riveted by Kathy and drawn to make her happy. When the food finally arrived, I was certain to make sure she received the mac and cheese. She was more starstruck by the mac and cheese than the stars from the Atlanta Hawks.

The moral pull – the stillness of the girl’s smile – has sucked me into community service like a black hole. If Dad were reading this, he would say, “it’s about time.” With a father who is president of the United Way of Atlanta, I was born into community service and may have, as a result, halfheartedly joined the serving lines at soup kitchens. I wanted to be my “own” man with my “own” path. I did not want to walk in the footsteps of Dad. But Kathy’s smile hit a chord. It shined a light. My engagement with community service from then on has not been motivated by bolstering my college application or professional resume. Through Kathy, I found the selfless faction of my identity; my own genuine interest to improve the lives of others.

I now blend community service with that other passion of mine, basketball, within my routine. Three times a week, I mentor children from the ages of eight to ten at the Boys and Girls Club in College Park, Georgia. Conveniently located right around the corner from my high school, I head over there once I am out of class to coach and referee basketball games. Every now and then, I am lucky enough to hear the winning question: “Will you play in a game with us?” That invitation makes my day. I can really bring it home with the proverbial “slam dunk” (the hoops only 8 feet). My presence on the court becomes something of a “wow factor.”

Joseph, the liveliest out of the bunch, becomes Chris Paul while I become his “Blake Griffin”, together, we are College Park’s “Lob City.” As soon as he crosses half court, he throws the ball in the vicinity of the rim with the hope that I will gently pluck it from the air and forcefully place the ball in the rim.

“Do it again,” the crowd cries.

I take every chance offered to make a positive impact on these kids. I want to inspire them to be the best people that they can be in the same way Kathy moved me. Looks like I have discovered a way to make community service a part of my life–on my own terms.

Taylor Little, a 2017 graduate of Woodward Academy, is now a freshman at Howard University.

Essay of the Week: My Sister, Too

By Benjamin Flanagan

The 13-year-old me didn’t understand rape. When I blocked a shot on the basketball court, my buddies would joke, “You just raped him.” Today I wonder how my buddies could have ever thought it was possible for a girl to enjoy being raped or something she used to gain attention–thanks, in part, to an episode of Glee.

Glee possessed something for everyone in my family–entertaining story lines for Mom, cute girls for me, and music for Susan, my younger sister. The show was no longer family fun after an episode when a cheerleader, Santana, shared the story of her rape. During the first commercial, Susan announced that she had been raped repeatedly by one of our babysitters’ teenage sons.

My mom started crying and holding my sister. I didn’t understand why she cried so much. It’s over, we can call the police and he can be put in jail. Mom acted like someone died. Susan’s not even crying so obviously it’s not a big deal, right? Did it even happen? I asked myself these questions as I got up, hugged my mom, and went to bed. Maybe my sister just wanted attention. Maybe it didn’t happen. Could it be that bad even if it did? I am ashamed of my ignorance at that time.

Mom, a single mother who worked crazy hours, often left us with a babysitter. Our big reward for being the first to finish homework was permission to watch television. Whenever Susan won and the babysitter wasn’t looking, I would snatch the remote from Susan’s hand. She would come at me full force: hitting, kicking, and biting. I was always bigger and stronger, which is why I enjoyed those fights–considered them harmless and playful.

I now became Susan’s protector. She became self destructive and my new responsibility was coming home early to hide all the knives. A year later, I lived on my own because Susan was in the psych ward and Mom moved to a hotel next door to a hospital in Westchester. Gone was conventional big brother fighting with his sister over who walks the dog. The household needed me to really grow up.

My new role influenced me on the basketball court–and off. Half time in the locker room of my first game on varsity: Nick and Osay–the two highest scorers– resemble two heavyweight boxers at weigh-in, trying to intimidate each other. We’re losing big time. Nick(6 ‘5) was red with frustration. He shoves Osay (6’3). Just as Osay was going to retaliate with a right hook, I jumped in between them. Me–the youngest and skinniest on the team– in between my heroes. I emerged from that locker room as a leader of the team and, to think, it all began with an episode of Glee.

I now watched my sister re-live the pain over and over through days of questioning by the DA. I wanted the rapist to go to jail to provide closure for my sister and family. After my sister’s rapist confessed, he never saw a day of jail– he pleaded insanity. Mom acted like she expected this to happen. Why? If you admit to a crime, shouldn’t you go to jail? I was crushed.

As a young man of color, I was prone to worrying about avoiding conflict with police officers and gang members–not rapists. Now as the brother of a rape victim, I see the impact of the brutal crime on a family and an individual. Emotions often drained my family, making normal family dinner impossible. I was the lone man of the household–never being able to understand the thoughts going through my sister’s head but trying to be there anyway. I could never ask for guidance on how to deal with the situation –I simply learned on the fly. The 13-year-old me would not have been the guy–the steady calm amongst the chaos.

Benjamin Flanagan, a graduate of Brooklyn Technical High School, is a freshman at University at Albany, SUNY.

Essay of the Week: The Bald and Bold Moment

Essay of the Week: The Bald and Bold Moment

By Adia Fielder

This is how it began: being black in that predominantly white space, my race always felt loud to me, especially sophomore year. Black bodies were falling victim to bullets at what seemed like an hourly pace and I struggled not only with coming to terms with that, but watching others not have to do so. For all the non-black people in the room this was a blip in their radar, morose of course, but not life or death for them like it was for me. It was a kind of helplessness, akin to that which I felt freshman year when I fought the internal battle over my sexuality; the same hurt and confusion swirled within me then as I dealt with those that I knew, by definition, couldn’t understand. The only conceivable way I could see to resolve these internal struggles was with outward resistance.

Around March, I was ready for change. So I did what I needed to; I cut all of my hair off. I still stand by the assertion that it was the best decision I’ve ever made. While I am very animated by nature, the day I cut my hair felt quiet, almost serene. Looking back, it was inevitable. At such a young age I had internalized the ideal that straighter and thinner and whiter was good, that to be bold and curly was to be too much and too loud and too black all at once. And now I was ready to rectify the chemical and heat damage I had done to my hair by starting over. It was spring; when everything new grows and the winter has no choice but to bow out of its way. This was my way of pressing forward. A girl from my dorm walked in as I was finishing up. “Woah,” she said, my hair apparently more pressing than her urge to use the bathroom. “Are you cutting it all off?” I nodded, kind of embarrassed to be sharing this almost intimate moment. But then she grinned. “Cool!” she said with two thumbs up. “I bet it’ll turn out great.”

My new lack of hair offered me a kind of freedom. With everything going on politically, I felt this rising condemnation of the black body, and I wanted to combat that. My new (lack of) hair was as much resistance as the vigils and protests I attended. In addition, I now had a cloak of gender ambiguity that I hadn’t had with long hair, but enjoyed nonetheless. I didn’t look “straight” or like the conventional idea of a girl. It grounded me in a way I had not known I needed, and was the missing jigsaw piece in what I considered to be a convoluted mess of my persona. I had complete control over my appearance for that moment. I was me; queer, black, weird, and now bald. Maybe that could be enough.

I was and remain a whirlwind of all these identities, and, when I was younger, the one thing I lacked in my life was a space where I saw the intersectionality in myself reflected outwardly. However, in the last few years visibility and celebration of black hair gained enormous traction. Today, it is not uncommon to see shaved heads, long flowing dreadlocks, afros that reach toward the sun in all sorts of colors. This is now the standard of beauty against which I measure all else. I have created for myself an alternate dimension – refusal to adhere to the conventional Western ideas of what was acceptable. It is this notion that helps me press me onwards; the knowledge that I can be myself, and boldly as well.

Adia Fielder, accepted to Brown, Wesleyan and several other schools ultimately chose Northwestern, where she is now a freshman. She is a 2017 graduate of Groton.

Essay of the Week: Finding a Healthy Home for Rage

Essay of the Week: Finding a Healthy Home for Rage

By Pridhvi Vegesna

“What did I do to deserve this?”

This question grips me as I enter a restaurant in India. Aromas of toasted breads, creamy curries, and fiery spices induce my senses into a state of bliss reflective of the passionate Indian spirit. I absorb the wonders which bless me, only to be interrupted by a server who asks me for my order.

The waiter is a 6 year old boy; his 1000 watt smile is radiant enough to distract anyone from the troubles of their day. But it wasn’t enough to stop me from realizing that this boy was missing an arm.

I moved to the Bay Area as a baby, travelling to my native land of India once every other year. There, the question still haunts me: “what did I do to deserve this?”

When I was 10, my Uncle and I were caught in the congested streets of Bhimavaram, Southern India when a young girl approached us. With a baby on her back, she mustered the energy to trudge to our car, where she submissively yielded her head and put forth her hands to beg for alms. Our eyes met for a second.


My uncle rolled up the window and sighed: “eentuuku vallu mana bora tintunaru” – Telugu for “why do they bother us.” Living in India his entire life has numbed him to beggars. But I couldn’t resist: I bolted out into the streets, tapped her shoulder, and placed some money in her hand before returning to the car. That night, I went to bed proud. But, the next day, I saw the same girl, on the same corner, stuck in the same miserable state.

I gave her charity, but I couldn’t give her justice. I became livid with the system of injustice that blinded my uncle to her humanity. I couldn’t bear the thought that poverty was constant — unchanging. But most of all, I was young and was hiding from the anger that I had with myself. I felt blessed, but inadequate and this frustrated me. I didn’t know how to share the gifts of my blessings.

I was released from the burden of ire while engaged in a debate over the minimum wage. I argued that America could benefit from a hike in the minimum wage. I spent hours amassing mounds of evidence — studies which showed the beneficial impacts of increasing the minimum wage. All the hours I put in meant that I couldn’t lose to my opponent (well, at least until their last speech). He introduced evidence about an island that had its entire economy based on the fishing industry. After the government raised the minimum wage on the island, companies outsourced all the fishing jobs leaving the economy in ruins. Years after the raise in the wage, 23.8% of the population was unemployed.

Although I lost that argument, I had won as a person: I found debate and, in the process, I discovered an outlet for all the rage that lived inside of me. Sure, the activity is more theoretical than concrete, but I’ve learned that before I can bring about the change that I so deeply desire, I need to learn how to combat my problems intellectually. Fixing poverty is more complicated than raising the minimum wage and it’s definitely not as easy as getting angry with my uncle.

Whereas the reminiscence of that little girl fixated me, frustrating me all the more, I’m now able to approach situations beyond their moral pull and embrace the complexity of policy behind each issue. No longer bedridden by my same old self-induced resentment, I’ve become critical, composed, and curious with debate. And these new skills will propel me to enact change in the real world.

The question is no longer “what did I do to deserve this?” Instead, I ask, “what will I do to fix it?”

Pridhvi Vegesna, a 2017 graduate of Saint Francis High School in Mountain View, California

Early Bird Announcement

Attention Juniors

Write for the Future’s First Early Bird Deadline for the Class of 2018 is approaching.

November 15 is the First Deadline!

For More Information:

Contact us at appointments@writeforthefuture.com

Essay of the Week: The Garden of Helena

Essay of the Week: The Garden of Helena

By Helena Sanchez

“Helena, Abby just ate a rock!”


So much for a peaceful walk in the woods with my ten campers. Add to that–a recent stomach virus caused the health center to shut down to care for the 32 sick campers and staff members.

I immediately race to Abby to prevent her from becoming number 33. She is smiling and fine. Before she has the chance to put another small pebble in her mouth, I warn her not to accept any more dares. She throws the rock away and we continue our march through the woods. I love every minute of it–minus thoughts of Abby’s digestive system.

We passed the outdoor greenhouse with growing vegetables. I see my life in that space as a garden growing with passions– children that I babysit, campers that I lead through the woods, dances that I perform and choreograph, classmates whose houses can feel like microcosms of other countries, debates with classmates and family gatherings filled with soul food and motown on one side and Dominican cuisine and bachata on the other. This is the biodiversity of my life.

Maybe I discovered my garden the first day I picked up Alex after school two years ago. I fell in love with babysitting, which evolved into a passion for working with children. From that moment on, I took the responsibility of nurturing and encouraging this 6 year old. She became a small flower in my garden.

A garden cannot thrive without a lifeline–water. My family is my water– the source of my personal growth–the center of my garden on the diverse corner of 110th street. I am also watered intellectually at Chapin, where it is comfortable to have controversial conversations about feminism or gun control sitting at lunch with friends, some I have known since kindergarten. Now, as a Peer Leader tasked with advisement ranging from academic time management to peer pressure, I am nurturing the sapling freshmen. It is a mission made for me–a natural teacher, camp counselor, leader and someone who has lived through the ups and downs of high school.

My garden moves with the grace of pirouettes and chaîné turns. TLC is the cultivation of a flourishing garden, sunlight — positive examples and encouragement from others — has been essential for me. Once, as a younger dancer, I sat cradled on the balsa floor attempting to rub away the pain after a rehearsal in pointes for the first time. It was then that Ms. Alison, my dance teacher, affectionately divulged some tricks of the trade: numbing cream before rehearsal, sticking cotton in between your toes to ease friction with the floor, and exercises to relieve the inevitable foot cramps. Her advice was vital.
I pass on the same for other young dancers as a volunteer at Dancing Dreams, assisting children with disabilities so they can live their dreams of dancing. My garden possesses the branches intertwining my love of teaching children and dance. At 16, I challenge my years of training and choreograph my first piece for 5 young dancers at different levels. I incorporate the teacher in my garden through companion planting– the sowing of seeds in a way that promotes cooperation over competition. My instructional techniques enable the dancers to feel confident and graceful on performance night.

The diversity of my garden is intertwined and feeds dynamism, that extra umph embedded in our nature. Like how on nothing but a whim and an opportunity, I flew to Elorrio, in the Basque Country, where I wasn’t yet fluent in the language, to teach English.
Other times we need the wherewithal to pause and do some life maintenance — or weeding as I like to think of it. Late nights, early mornings, and subsequent lack of sleep from juggling school, dance, and other extracurriculars take their toll but also create my sprawling ecosystem of passions and ideas living and thriving within me.

Helena Sanchez, a 2017 graduate of The Chapin School, is a freshman at Wesleyan.

Essay of the Week: Piloting to New Destinations

Essay of the Week: Piloting to New Destinations

By Zoe Akoto

“You’re really bringing that?”

I shout from the doorway, walking into the room as my brother packs his suitcase. In his hands, he holds about twenty gingham shirts, varying only in color and Vineyard Vines purchase date.

“These are good shirts,” he says, eyes to the floor, not looking up from his packing as he stuffs the shirts into his bag.

Alex was getting ready to leave for medical school this time. I was seven years old when he first left for boarding school, and eleven when he headed off to college. Now, at fifteen, I knew the routine: the packing, the kitchen goodbyes, the final waves from the driveway.

Growing up, my big brothers, Max and Alex, were my anchors. As the only girl in my family, I was an anomaly, signalling to my parents a deviation from the parenting style to which they were accustomed. While they accommodated my variance in kind, their established style used with my brothers still lingered. You could find me on the soccer field and in ballet class, tumbling in gymnastics and wrestling with my brothers in our living room. In exploring both the interests assigned to girls and boys, I found a confidence in my breadth of abilities, existing in an in-between space that allowed me to stand alongside my brothers.

However, when they both left home for boarding school, college, and beyond, my brothers’ absences and the knowledge of them outside our small town–not their permanency in my home life–centered me. They were experiencing and coming to understand the world around them; demonstrating there was more to the world than Kennett Square, Pennsylvania.

Eventually I learned I could not fully engage the wider world solely from my brothers’ hand-me-down memories. By the time Alex left for medical school, I was pursuing my own dreams. Seeing the audacity of my brothers as explorers seizing new challenges inspired me to do the same. However, I did so on my own terms. I refused to go to boarding school when the opportunity arose and discovered passageways in my hometown to explore, such as a transformative position at my school’s literary magazine, Tapestry.

My journey to becoming editor of Tapestry isn’t heroic. It is not the uplifting tale of a student rising in the ranks until finally reaching the pinnacle of her high school literary career. In fact, it more closely resembles the account of a flight attendant who must take the helm of a crashing plane and narrowly but safely lands it, despite having no serious preparation or training. That’s what Tapestry was on any given day: a plane on the verge of crashing. And that’s what I was when the seniors all bailed and I, now the oldest and most experienced member, became the de facto editor-in-chief: seriously unprepared and untrained. As a junior, I was already determined to take on a bigger role with Tapestry, leading the push to collect posters and spread the word for submissions. Once we received all the submissions, the editors took lead, guiding the staff through deliberations on which pieces to put in the book and doing all the layout work to get the book together for publishing.

Suddenly, I was the sole editor of the magazine and had to take the lead on each step of the process, carrying a greater amount of responsibility than I had yet to face and doing the work of a junior editor-hopeful and current editor at the same time. My upbringing prepared me though, and the confidence and flexibility I’d developed early on became vital as I strained to pull my staff together to produce Tapestry.

Now, as I prepare to board to my next destination, I hold onto the lessons I’ve learned in Kennett Square, lessons that make the foundation on which I’ll continue to observe, learn and thrive, watching from a plane window headed to destinations unknown.

Zoe Akoto, a graduate of Archmere Academy in Clayton, Delaware, is a freshman at Amherst College.

Essay of the Week: Rising After a Fall

Essay of the Week:  Rising After a Fall

By Michael Charles

It was the battle against the hair on his face. “If you do not walk more than one batter, I will shave my beard.”

My coach, Tom, even came to the mound in the sixth inning to jokingly remind me of his challenge. I won. He shaved the beard he loved. If only pitching, baseball, hiking and history, –the things I love– would be as easy as seeing Tom’s bare face in sixth grade.

Three years later, I walked into Pre-AP World History. “Just to let you guys know, this class will have more work and be more challenging than most the classes you guys have had prior. You have to be willing to put in the work.”

I chuckled as I had heard that speech from other teachers. History had always been my favorite subject– anything less than a A was a failure for me. However arrogance was my downfall. My ego took a hit when she plopped the test on my desk. On my first exam, I did not fail with a B or a C, but a 60.

I refused to lose. I accepted that I could not breeze through a subject just because I loved the interesting material. In addition to reviewing notes and reading chapters, I began watching documentaries and answering practice questions. My test grades surged.

Fast Forward to Summer: I am relaxing with an intense game of FIFA until my phone vibrates rapidly, almost constantly. I scroll through the incoming messages to find friends badgering me to check my AP World History score. A chill comes over me; it is the moment of truth. I log into the college board website, and pause. I click and see a simple number that means the world to me: 4.

A few weeks later, I soaked in the nature around me– the chirping birds, rustling leaves and glaring sun signaled the beginning of yet another adventure. After climbing for several hours, the end was near; the peak was in sight. Bounding towards the finish line, I slipped on a slimy rock hidden by moss and mud. My legs gave out from under me. Collapsing on the ground, I ended up on back gazing at the sun beaming through the treeline above me and felt a stream of blood flow down my shin–a quarter size gash on my knee. Teary eyed and with a limp, I dusted myself off and marched on.

My motto–get back up after a fall– continued to face tougher tests last year. I could not escape the intimidation as I watched my opponents warm up in what promised to be one of the toughest games. I knew this game would be hard fought and I welcomed this challenge. Warming up, my throws were crisp and my fielding was immaculate. In the Second Inning, the wheels fell off. With a runner on first and nobody out, the hitter corked a sharp groundball in my direction. I knew exactly what I was going to do with the ball once I caught it. I turned to fire the ball to second base, but I was missing one thing: the baseball. My teammates shouted to me to take my time and throw to first. However, panic had stole my sense of confidence. I picked up the ball and threw wildly to first, resulting in everyone being safe. I shuffled back to my position with my head down. From here, things spiralled out of control. I left the game without the big smile I wore when Tom lost his beloved beard.

I was constantly replaying that moment in my head on the bus ride. Eventually, I realized that missing the one ground ball would not define me as a player. Baseball is engaging because of the challenges of the sport. Those challenges come with the possibilities of successes and failures. I would move on from the missed ball with the lessons from history and hiking as a guide.

Michael Charles, a graduate of Valley Stream South High School, is freshman at Bates College.

Essay of the Week: Puzzles In Action

Essay of the Week: Puzzles In Action

By Sadie Stern

Sadie Stern“Where’s Sadie?”

When I hear my name, I automatically know Justin is stirring up trouble in the classroom. This time, I barely see the pencil as it whizzes past my face, just grazing my hair before clattering to a stop on a nearby table. The noise captures the attention of seventeen first graders, who turn their heads as another pencil takes flight. Amidst the peals of laughter, I find Justin now lifting a chair above his head in an Atlas-esque fashion. I rush over to him and gently pull the chair away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

He glances at his feet, then gestures to his math worksheet, scowling slightly, “I can’t do this.”

It was my second year as a volunteer at the GO Project, a non-profit organization that provides academic support to children in under-resourced NYC public schools. Justin arrived on his first day overflowing with energy. I became the only one who could calm him.

Why me? Perhaps the answer begins outside the elevator of my apartment building when I was Justin’s age. The lobby floors were slick with melting snow from outside. I could hear my teeth chattering and ran ahead of my family. I impatiently pressed the elevator button as a neighbor trotted in.

“Are you excited to see Santa?” she asked, brushing snow off her hat. I shook my head.
“I am celebrating Hanukkah because I am Chinese,” I told her. There was a brief look of confusion before she regained her smile, “That’s sweet.”

I was an enigma to my neighbor. She saw a Chinese girl but had no idea I was adopted by a white Jewish woman. I realized at a young age that there was something about me people could not know by just looking at me. The concept made my head spin. However, the reality of my own identity inspired my fascination in seeing the depth in those around me. I wondered if Justin could sense that inclination, if he knew I saw him as more than a troublemaker. Regardless, I was glad he decided to trust and confide in me, inadvertently becoming another puzzle for me.

I adore puzzles. As a child, I always loved sprawling across the carpet and sifting through the piles of puzzle pieces. There was nothing more rewarding than the excitement of watching the image slowly appear and the feeling of satisfaction when I finished. I was eight when my grandfather introduced me to the sudoku puzzle in the New York Times. We sat side by side at the kitchen table, mulling over the apparently endless possibilities of numbers and sequences. We worked for hours, armed with blue pens and sparkly butterfly pencils. Eventually, he would tire of the activity so I would carefully fold the page of newspaper and tuck it into my back pocket where it would stay until it was solved.

The keys to solving a puzzle, I learned, were patience, perseverance and a willingness to experiment with new things. I spent weeks employing a similar approach trying understand to Justin. Our long walks in the hallway became an outlet for him to release his energy and our seemingly trivial conversations became my window into his frame of mind. Slowly, I pieced together the puzzle of Justin. Finally, it clicked: I never saw him without his Lego figurines! They were inseparable. And so, I rewrote all of his math problems. Now instead of adding up library books or apples, Justin counted Lego figurines. Yet no one could have predicted that he would grow into such a strong math student. Similarly, no one could have predicted that a policy instituted by a Chinese communist autocrat could have created the perplexing life I know today as a Chinese girl who celebrates Hanukkah.

Sadie Stern graduated from Little Red School House and Elisabeth Irwin High School today and will be a freshman at Brown University in the fall.